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About Chicago

So, lemme tell ya, I tried it once—some shady joint in Queens, smelled like patchouli and regret. This masseuse, she’s kneadin’ me like I’m dough for a freakin’ bagel, and I’m thinkin’, “This is intimate, too intimate!” Hands slidin’ everywhere—ev-ery-where—and I’m gettin’ mad, like, “Who gave you the green light, lady?!” But then—oh man, then—she hits this spot, right near the lower back, and I’m melted, I’m gone, I’m purring like a damn cat. Pretty, pretty good, I’ll admit it! Still, I’m paranoid—did she wash her hands? Is this sanitary? I’m a mess!